


Dance for me

by BlushLouise



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Decepticons Won, Autobot slaves, JazzWaveWeek 2020, M/M, Pole Dancing, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27047791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushLouise/pseuds/BlushLouise
Summary: The Decepticons won the war. Captured Autobots are enslaved. Now, Jazz has to work with what he has. Which happens to be a dancing pole, minimal plating and all the skills he can muster. Good think he has an ally in here.
Relationships: Jazz/Soundwave (Transformers)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 82
Collections: Jazzwave Week 2020





	Dance for me

**Author's Note:**

> For JazzWaveWeek!  
> This piece was inspired by Dance Monkey by Tones and I, because I thought the music was stalker-creepy.

The room is dim, except for the spotlights. As usual the center one’s trained on Jazz, bright enough to dazzle, to reflect off the chrome and cables. Bright enough to be blinding, too. He can’t see much.

He doesn’t have to.

He knows where to focus. Knows to keep his visor aimed at the back of the room, where there’s a U-shaped booth with walls tall enough to keep its occupant safe from prying optics. He knows there’s a table, with a single glass of potent high-grade on it, untouched. He knows there’s a mech, watching him.

Jazz barely pays attention for the rest of the room. There are mecha sitting in other booths, on low couches, most of them with a pleasure-slave or two draped over their laps or the table or any flat surface. The other dance platforms are occupied as well, the former Autobots on them bare almost to the protoform and showing off their best moves. And even with all that going on, even with all the pretties on display, Jazz knows that the mech in the deep booth? He’s going to be watching none of it. He’s only going to be watching Jazz.

The music starts. And Jazz begins to dance.

Before, Jazz hadn’t been able to move like this. Even as flexible as he’d been, there was too much metal in the way. But it’s not difficult anymore. Not with the armor plating gone from his waist, from his hips, his shoulders, even his arms and legs. The only pieces left are the ones that are decorative, that accentuate his lines or tease with what mecha can’t have. The plating over his spark, just enough left for spark-light to tease around the edges. The barest covering over his spike, to hide the ugly cap keeping it away. Hiding the parts of him his master’s clientele doesn’t want to see, and showcasing the rest.

The valve panel had been the first to go. He missed it, at first, but anything can be endured. And now, when he bends, dips down deep, knees spread and back arched, he knows what they can see. He can almost imagine that red visor locked on him when he turns, showing himself to that booth alone.

Jazz has trained for many a role, many a mission, some requiring him to skirt the lines of what he considered acceptable. He’d never have considered this, before. He’d never have been comfortable with doing this. He still isn’t, not fully. But all in all, he figures he’s got an advantage.

At least he’s above the crowd, up on stage. At least he’s dancing.

There’s a howl from one of the tables, the whine of a high-performance engine forced through its paces too fast to be safe. Jazz twirls, wrapping himself around his dance pole, arching back until he sees the room upside down.

Blurr is tied down, spread-eagled on a table, tension in every line of his frame as he shrieks. The electro-prod tracing his long legs is set strong enough to hurt, judging the way Blurr’s arching and howling every time it touches him. Motormaster chuckles as he draws nonsensical designs on Blurr’s frame, one hand palming his own massive spike. Blurr’s spike, like Jazz’s, has been locked away. He’s probably grateful for that now. At least it’s out of harm’s way.

Jazz straightens, twists gracefully into another pose. There’s not much he can do for Blurr right now. At least there are guards on hand to make sure Motormaster doesn’t permanently hurt anything. There’s a standing rule against damaging the slaves, but Motormaster’s not the best at obeying that. The guards will keep an eye on him and Blurr.

Jazz stretches his arms over his head, rolls his hips to show off. He’s the centerpiece tonight, like so many other nights, and he needs them to keep watching him.

The gasp from behind him is accompanied by a lustful growl and a revving engine. Jazz hooks one leg around his pole and leans out, letting his weight pull him around. He turns his head enough to see an overcharged Runamuck running his hands down Mirage’s bare leg. Mirage is holding completely still, frozen in the spotlight, not giving any grounds but not fighting back either. Clever mech. The guards are already on the way, too, to drag Runamuck away. He hasn’t paid for the privilege of touching tonight. As soon as the Decepticon is gone, Mirage resumes dancing. No harm done this time, though Jazz knows his friend well enough to spot the distaste. Mirage doesn’t like their situation. But he endures. He knows he has to.

Jazz completes his slow spin around the pole, legs spread to show off what many of these mecha considers his main asset. He doesn’t care. Better they forget who they’re actually dealing with, forget his skills and just see a pretty valve. He can work with that.

The platform opposite Mirage’s is Hot Rod’s tonight. His lack of actual training and skill is made up for by good looks and sheer talent. He’s gotten to keep more of his plating than Mirage and Jazz, but he’s no less flexible for it. No less captivating either, judging by the number of optics glued to his frame. Hot Rod has an easier time of it than some of the others, for some reason. He hasn’t had to do anything but dance yet. Jazz would hope it’s because they’ve seen how young he is, but it’s more likely that he’s being saved for something special. Someone has their optics on Hot Rod, has probably paid to keep him untouched a while longer. It probably won’t be pretty when that time runs out.

There’s nothing he can do about that now, though. He’ll have to let it be. Just like he has to ignore the way Blurr screams again, the fake smile that’s taken over Tracks’ face, the way Bluestreak lets his frame be handled and moved by whoever’s paid for him this time. He doesn’t look at facial expressions, tries to block out the cries and whimpers, both the good and the bad kind. It’s taken practice.

Thankfully, it’s not all bad. Not everyone is a Runamuck or a Motormaster. Jazz has seen the way Onslaught takes care of Mirage when he’s paid for him, has heard Beachcomber speak Scavenger’s praises. Not every ‘Con is a crook. Jazz knows that well enough.

He straightens, showing off his curves and angles. He can’t see the mech in the booth, but he knows he’s there, watching. He always watches. Jazz knows the routine by now. In a few more songs, someone will come claim Mirage. Then Hot Rod will be placed on the center stage, and Jazz will be taken away. He’s already anticipating it, frame so used to the way things are done that it’s already preparing without his input. It had been mortifying at first to have his frame betraying him in public like that, to have evidence of his readiness there for all to see, but he’s adapted. They all have.

Another slow spin shows the light glistening in the lubricant leaking down Mirage’s leg. It had been worse for Mirage. He wasn’t used to being a spectacle like this, to have every weakness on display. He still struggles with it, but even Jazz has a hard time seeing that now. Mirage has always been good at covering up his emotions and reactions. He doesn’t give much away.

The song ends, and another begins. Jazz recognizes it, recognizes Blaster’s subtle touch in it, and has a moment to spare for surprise that it would even be played here. Not that any of the mecha around him seem to recognize it.

He chooses to see it as a good sign. And he knows how to move to this one.

He clings to the pole, lifting himself up. Showcasing his frame the best way he knows how. The better a show he puts on, the sooner the show will end.

From the corner of his optic, he sees Onslaught approaching Mirage, offering him a hand down. Good. Mirage will be in gentle hands tonight. And that’s Jazz’s cue to finish up.

He stretches, every cable in his frame tensing and releasing, showing off. Arches gracefully, every motion captivating. He knows how to work an audience, even like this.

There are heavy footsteps coming his way. It’s time.

Jazz twists and lands on his feet, looking down at the guard. This one’s a big hulk of a brute, like many of them are – and have to be, to toss pieces of slag like Brawl and Dirge out on their afts – but like the rest of them, he’s okay enough. The guards know very well who they work for and what rules to follow to keep their jobs. Weirdly enough, for a certain meaning of the word, Jazz and the others can trust them.

He takes the guard’s hand and lightly jumps off the platform. Hot Rod is already there, grinning, ready to be lifted up on the platform by whoever steps up to do the honors. Looks like it’s Blitzwing, this time. Could be worse. Hot Rod can survive a little groping.

“Night, Jazz,” he chirps, bending the rules a little as usual. Jazz just smiles back. Hot Rod may be incapable of doing exactly what he’s supposed to, but Jazz has a role to play.

He sneaks one last glance at Mirage, safely in Onslaught’s lap, and permits the guard to lead him into the darker back of the room and towards that booth.

The mech seated there stands, inclines his head slightly at the guard. He turns away, and Jazz follows.

There’s a door in the back, opposite the bar. The mech holds the door open, and Jazz walks ahead of him down the hall and up the stairs. The apartment upstairs is sound-isolated, the door thick enough that Jazz struggles to pull it open. Inside it’s dark and blissfully quiet. He stops in the middle of the room, waiting.

The door slams shut behind him.

“Jazz. At ease,” that melodious voice says, and Jazz grins as he relaxes. The light increases a little, and Soundwave comes to stand in front of him.

“Comfortable?” he asks, one hand raised to cradle Jazz’s face.

Jazz nuzzles into his palm. “Not bad at all, tonight. Thanks for setting Blurr up with those charge absorbers. Motormaster would have really hurt him tonight, without them.”

“Soundwave: apologizes for not doing so sooner. Damage: never intended. Happiness desired. Not harm.”

He means it too, Jazz knows. Even with everything Soundwave’s done, how hard he fought for Megatron, he never wanted this. He never wanted slavery. In that respect, Jazz has been lucky. He might be a prisoner, might have to act the slave, but it could have been so much worse. He’s actually grateful that Soundwave was the one to claim him when the Autobots were finally taken down. He’d expected to have to fight for his continued existence when they lost. He’d never thought he’d find a friend. An ally. More, even.

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Soundwave’s hand. “Thanks, lover. I’m grateful. We all are.”

Soundwave kneels in front of Jazz, puts his arms around Jazz’s scantily armored waist. His forehead rests on Jazz’s chest. “Soundwave: tries. Wants to do better.”

“We’re working on it.” Soundwave is very easy to hug like this. Jazz knows to take advantage of that. “Have you heard anything?”

“Starscream confirms presence of Autobot gestalts,” Soundwave replies. “Considered too young to enslave. Younglings: to be protected. Aerialbots: in care of Rainmaker trine. Protectobots: in care of Constructicons. Doing well.”

“The Rainmakers are on Starscream’s side,” Jazz muses. “I’m glad they’re taking care of them.” He’s more worried about the Protectobots. The Constructicons are very firmly Megatron’s mechs. But the Protectobots are also some of the more rock-solid personalities Jazz has ever encountered. It’ll take a lot for them to buckle, especially if the Constructicons treat them as the younglings they are. Pit, they might get bored before they get abused. Besides, if he can judge by Scavenger’s behavior, the Constructicons might not be that bad.

And at least the kids aren’t being made to grace someone’s berth. That’s always a good thing.

“The Dinobots?”

“Also considered young,” Soundwave replies. “But strong. Rebellious. Thundercracker reports Dinobots working as a team in the foundries.”

Not ideal, but not horrible either. And they’re together, which is a good thing.

“Soundwave,” Soundwave continues, and now he sounds nervous. “Received offer.”

“Oh?” Jazz pushes Soundwave back until he’s sitting and Jazz can climb into his lap. He doesn’t care that his open valve is pressing against Soundwave’s legs, and right now, he knows Soundwave doesn’t either. “What kind of offer?”

“To purchase additional slaves.” Soundwave’s mask and visor click aside, showing Jazz the hesitant frown on his face. “Price: excessive.”

Jazz considers those words. Soundwave isn’t a stranger to buying up other Decepticons’ slaves – that was how he acquired both Tracks and Beachcomber – and he never complains about what they cost him. The club is doing well, and Soundwave never seems to run out of funds. Jazz suspects he has a fortune hidden away somewhere. So for Soundwave to mention the cost now…

“You think they’re on to you,” he guesses. “Either that, or the slaves are in really poor shape. Who’s selling?”

“Astrotrain and Blitzwing. Suspicion: unlikely.”

He’s probably right about that. Those two are not the brightest bulbs in Megatron’s army. “Did they say why they’re selling?”

“Excuse given: mission off-world.” Soundwave’s optics slant towards Jazz. “To Soundwave’s knowledge: no such mission given. More likely: slaves too much to handle.”

That does make more sense. “Who is it?”

Soundwave hesitates. “Slaves: Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.”

Jazz winces. “Ouch. And at a hiked-up price? Will the medics even work with them?” There is no doubt in his mind that the triple-changers are selling because the twins have made their lives a living hell. Which means that Sunstreaker at least is probably close to deactivation. And the twins have never been easy patients. They’re not likely to let Hook or any of the other Decepticon medics close.

But Soundwave smirks at the question. “Soundwave: made profitable deal. Access to Onslaught’s medic slave in return for Onslaught having first rights to Mirage.”

“We get Ratchet?” Jazz grins. “That is the best news I’ve heard all week.” He feels a bit bad that Mirage has essentially been peddled off to Onslaught for it, but Onslaught is good to him. Jazz will make sure that continues. Besides, it might be worth it for access to Ratchet.

He stretches up, plants a soft kiss on Soundwave’s lips. “Make the deal, babe. The twins’ll need hefty work.”

Soundwave kisses back, for a moment. “Effort: will be made.”

“Good.” Jazz leans back a bit until they can look at each other again. “You know you won’t be able to use them as dancers or ‘facing slaves, right? You’ll need to come up with a reason for getting them.” He doesn’t doubt that Soundwave will. Soundwave doesn’t acquire slaves for his own sake.

Soundwave nods, a little smile on his face again. Jazz aches to lean close and kiss it. “Reason: found. Sideswipe: will work acquisitions. Similar to pre-war tasks. Also, frees Soundwave from dealing with Swindle.”

Jazz laughs. “Win-win. And Sunny?”

“Undecided. Ratchet’s verdict: decisive factor.” Soundwave’s arms tighten around Jazz, and he nuzzles his sensor horn. “Considered: guard. Also: detailing of other slaves.”

“Depending on how badly he’s been mistreated and how fast he heals,” Jazz agrees. Those are good options for Sunstreaker. If neither works out, there’s a plan C, though the twins will be useful to keep around when the slag finally hits the fan. “Have you heard from Barricade?”

“Affirmative. Ironhide: arrived safely. Will be relocated off-world at nearest opportunity.”

Ironhide is one of those who just couldn’t be kept. Soundwave didn’t have a reason to keep him. He’d been bought through multiple intermediaries, and sent on to safety as soon as could be managed.

Situations like Ironhide’s are why Jazz trusts Soundwave with all their lives. Why he’s staying, even after Soundwave has tried to send him away. Why he cares. “Good,” he murmurs. “He’ll do good there.”

“Affirmative.” Soundwave leans in and nuzzles Jazz’s sensor horns, one of the few pieces of plating they agreed he should keep. “Prowl says hello.”

“Say hello back next time you talk to them. And tell him about the kids, he’ll want to know.” Jazz stretches in Soundwave’s arms, showing off his frame purposefully this time. He’s been teasing Soundwave with it all night, and now he can actually do something about it. “When’s Onslaught bringing Ratchet over?”

“Arrangement: for tomorrow morning. Onslaught to have time with Mirage tonight. Private room secured. Then will bring medic tomorrow morning.” Soundwave’s optics are sharp as they meet Jazz’s. “Private room: heavily monitored. Mirage: safe.”

“Thanks, babe.” Onslaught’s been a doting fan of Mirage’s so far, but that’s in public. Taking precautions is a wise thing.

Not that Mirage can’t incapacitate Onslaught if he tries anything. Even with Mirage unarmed and bare practically to his protoform, Jazz knows who he’d bet on in that fight.

But that’s for another time. Now, Jazz stands, extending a hand to Soundwave. “Come to berth with me,” he says simply. “Let me see you.”

Soundwave lets himself be pulled to his feet before catching Jazz in his arms again. “Jazz: treasured,” he murmurs. “Beloved.”

“I know, lover.” And he does. It’s honestly the one thing he’s got complete faith in in all of this, the only reason he’s pulling through the way he is. It’s not a bad life, this, even with the illusion of being stripped of all freedom and dignity. Jazz knows the truth. He couldn’t have done this without Soundwave, and Soundwave couldn’t have done this without him.

Soon, they’ll fight back. They’ll pull up roots and relocate, bring every slave and Decepticon who can be won over, burning down what they can in the process and start anew elsewhere. They’ll find the Matrix, fight back, defeat Megatron and build some form of equality on Cybertron.

Soon, but not yet.

Tonight, Jazz is Soundwave’s. And Soundwave is Jazz’s.

Jazz kisses him softly, then leads him into the berth room. The door slides shut behind them.


End file.
